Nature's Finest
by Royalty09
Summary: A late night encounter, a fetish revealed. Crane x Rachel Dawes x foodstuffs. I don't own any of these characters!


It was a dark and stormy night…

Oh, I know what you're thinking; what a horrible cliché. But please, bear with me, for it truly was a dark and stormy night.

Three weeks had passed since the riots had rocked the congested streets of the Narrows and the front doors of Arkham Asylum had been thrown open, allowing all the inmates, myself included, to join in the festivities. To date, I and about a dozen of my former, not to mention smarter, patients have yet to be apprehended.

Now I know what you're thinking; surely I've fled the state, possibly the country, but the truth is I haven't gone very far at all. I spend my cold nights, huddled in the remnants of discarded blankets, behind a dumpster. A dumpster that just so happens to be located behind the very asylum I was Director of less than one month ago.

No, it's not a desperate cry for help. I don't want to get caught; nothing could be further from the truth. I know people; I know how their minds operate. They spend so much time wrapped up in their own concerns that they rarely notice what's right under their noses. How often have you passed a homeless man on the street and ignored his pleas for spare change? You never know, maybe it was me.

Since the toxin left my system and I regained the ability to think rationally, a hard fought battle to say the least, I've spent a great deal of time doing just that. I've adapted well to my new life, learning how to survive, how to flourish and I do find it funny that the very dumpster I sleep behind provides my breakfast, lunch and dinner. Gone are the fine wines, the gourmet meals, I was caught in my own trap. It is poetic justice and it's also sad, for I have been so quickly forgotten.

How does one fall so far, so quickly? I've had plenty of time to ponder that issue as well.

All roads lead to _her_.

_Rachel Dawes_

The mere mention of her name makes my blood boil and her face, that smug pout included, will forever be etched in my memory. I'm an educated man and I still know my craft; no good ever came from ignoring ones problems. In order to move forward, it's important for a person to exercise their demons and what better time than the present?

When the sun set and all the hooligans came out to play, I blended with them. No one in their right mind, no pun intended, would recognize me as _the_ Dr. Jonathan Crane any longer and I was able to make the journey from the Narrows to West Harlow unmolested.

It was late by the time I arrived, almost midnight in fact, and silly Ms. Dawes had left her living room window unlocked. It was a foolish mistake; no one living in Gotham would make such a glaring error, not even an inattentive do-gooder like her. I would later discover that she had been waiting for me and had somehow known that I would pick this night above all others, to pay her a visit.

I slipped in silently, which was of the utmost importance because the apartment was dead quiet. There was no television to mask my movements, nothing at all and if every light in the apartment hadn't been on, I would have been convinced she'd retired for the evening. Sure enough, she came strolling into the kitchen a moment later without a care in the world, completely unaware that she was no longer alone. It was all too easy.

But that negligee she wore quelled my murderous rage; one could say she was to die for. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a robot – I am every inch a heterosexual male and I appreciate a beautiful woman as much as the next man. However, unlike the rest of my gender, I am not ruled by the smaller of my two heads. I can easily push my cravings and my feelings of lust and desire to the side. That night, dismissal was not so easy. The sight of her lean, athletic form, clad only in a pink babydoll that left little to the imagination, rattled me. It was so unexpected. I had her pegged as a flannel kind of girl; long sleeves, long pants, a button down front – like a little suit she could wear to bed, and the bunny slippers…those were a nice touch. At least, I thought they were. Had I known then what I know now, at that point, I would have run away screaming.

I think it was the tiny droplets of water falling from my cold, rain soaked body onto the kitchen floor that first drew her attention and she wheeled around, looking repulsed and yet, somewhat relieved to find me standing there.

"Crane," she sneered.

She spit my name out as if it were a profanity. She hates me, she always hated me. Even before I got mixed up with the Falcone's and the infamous Henri Ducard, she'd had it out for me. In my weaker moments, I used to wonder why, but as I stood before her that night, I began to understand. We're not so different, she and I. We both live for our jobs, we're both young and we both struggle to be taken seriously because of our youth. Thankfully, my struggles have ended. I don't think hers ever will. If she hadn't been so damned self-righteous, if she had made just a few wrong choices in life, she would be just like me. One wrong move and we would have been accomplices instead of adversaries. When she saw me that night, she realized how fine the line actually was and it frightened her.

It excited me.

"Ms. Dawes," I replied in polite acknowledgement. Despite my motives for having been there, I saw no reason to be rude.

"I knew you would come," she admitted and I saw a strange look in her eyes; could it be? Yes, Rachel Dawes was nervous, that made her all the more irresistible.

I wrapped my hands around her throat and to my surprise, she didn't scream or struggle. Instead, she licked her lips and ground her hips against mine. My desire to kill her rapidly gave way and my hands left her neck, traveling downward, talking the spaghetti straps of her nightgown with me. Who would have expected such behavior from the young assistant D.A.? Keep in mind that I have not had a proper shower, nor have I shaved in three weeks. Other than the occasional bird bath in random public restrooms, I haven't primped at all, but she didn't care. Quite the opposite, she couldn't get enough and which one of us was actually the aggressor that night was very much up for debate.

It didn't matter really. By that point, I had her propped up on her own kitchen table with our lips pressed together and my hands fervently caressing her inner thighs. I wanted her, I wanted to know her. I had been out in the cold for so long, I desperately wanted to feel her heat.

"Wait," she said and pushed me away. I was disappointed, you understand, but not surprised. Actually, I would have been shocked had she not had second thoughts about our impending union, but then she said those four little words that every man secretly longs to hear, "I have this fantasy…,"

Ahh, well it was nice to know that Ms. Dawes still had an active imagination and what kind of a therapist would I be if I denied this vigorous young woman her fantasies? Naturally, I told her that I would be happy to oblige.

I followed her through the rest of her apartment and we found ourselves standing just outside her bedroom. The door was shut and as she grasped the knob, she gave me a deliciously naughty look and said, "I redecorated just for you."

I was most intrigued, but when she opened that door, my curiosity turned to confusion. Every inch of that room was pink. To say it looked liked two tanker trucks carrying Pepto Bismal had collided in that overexcited space would not do it justice. The rest of her apartment was decorated in a quiet conservative manner. To be frank, this didn't make any sense to me and it reminded me of the way my younger sister used to keep her bedroom during her pre-teen years. She had said this had been done for my benefit and that was also disturbing. If that were true then apparently, for all these years, Ms. Dawes had been operating under the notion that I was some kind of pedophile.

I didn't raise any of these concerns, though I probably should have. At the time, I was too worried about ruining what could only be a once in a lifetime opportunity. I just smiled at her and told her it was "lovely".

She stepped into the room and stretched across her bed, relishing in the way I squirmed at the sight of her. I was just about to join her on that queen size mattress when she put her hand up and told me to stop.

"This is the fantasy," she said and she pointed to the dresser beside me. "Open the top drawer. I want you to wear what's inside."

Role playing; I thought it would be fun, but when I opened that drawer, what I found inside made me question exactly how great a toll my toxin had taken on her mind.

"Is this a joke, Ms. Dawes?" I asked.

"Why does everyone ask me that?" she sobbed and I picked up the items quickly, knowing that if I didn't take action, the moment would be gone.

"Like this?" I asked, trying to look eager as I placed the first item on my head.

"Yeah, that's it. The other one has an adhesive backing, put it on."

Again, I did as told and when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I cringed at just how ridiculous I looked. There I stood, a grown man, a doctor, formerly regarded as one of the best in my field, wearing pink bunny ears with fuzzy white trim and about to willingly place a fluffy cotton tail on my backside. It was unsightly.

Evidently, Ms. Dawes didn't think so,

"Not like that," she said as I took a step toward her. "Hop for me."

"Ms. Dawes, I…,"

"I said hop, you sick little bunny; hop!"

She was yelling at me and I was worried that might attract attention. Against my better judgment, I summoned my inner rabbit and put forth what I considered to be, a solid imitation.

"That's it, baby. Now turn around and shake that tail."

I sighed heavily and again, I did what she asked. Oddly enough, I did garner some twisted kind of pleasure listening to her moan, "Ooh, that wascally wabbit is in my cawwots again," but when she made that off color remark about cutting off my foot and keeping it as a good luck charm; I had to draw the line.

"Can we please have sex now, you lunatic?" I asked out of sheer frustration. I had been shaking my cotton clad bum in her face for ten minutes straight. It was not unreasonable to demand _something_ in return.

When I finally turned to face her, I found she had a carrot in one hand and a small bottle of K-Y Jelly in the other. To this day, I don't know where they came from or why she keeps such items in her bedroom.

"Dr. Crane," she whispered and licked her lips. "There's an Easter egg hunt in your underpants and only I'm invited."

I was about to tell her she was scaring me, when I was distracted by the sight of that carrot as she slowly ran the tip up and down her well toned thighs.

"And what are you going to do with that?" I asked, finding myself a bit more intrigued with the whole scenario.

"Shh, be vewy vewy quiet; I'm hunting wabbits," she responded.

At that point, I thought I had the game all figured out and I was most eager to go down that rabbit hole. I took my time as I approached – anticipation is often its own reward and I wanted the moment to last.

When I was just within reach, she pounced.

"Now I gotcha, you, you wabbit," she screamed and then she was all over me. For a person who spends most of her time behind a desk, she's surprisingly agile.

I wish I could tell you that I was able to maintain my dignity; that I fought her off, but I am not a large man, and that woman…she's a beast and they say the mad have strength.

A week has passed since that fateful night and I will never be the same. I continue to struggle with mental illness on a daily basis and dare I say my night with her has made the struggle all the more difficult. But no matter how far my descent into madness may take me, I will never forget our encounter. Lord knows I have tried. Nevertheless, this newly acquired bowlegged gait, serves as a constant reminder.

It will forever haunt my waking hours and grant fodder to my worst nightmares. In testament to just how traumatic that night was, I cannot pass a grocery store or vegetable stand without shaking uncontrollably. No amount of therapy will ever change that.

For on that dark and stormy November night, I let my guard down and my arch nemesis, Rachel Dawes, got the better of me.

My only source of comfort, my sole consolation is that the carrot in question was organically grown. In response to my frenzied screams that evening, she assured me it was free of herbicides, pesticides and artificial preservatives.

Nature's finest.

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**Author's Note: This was meant to be a parody…my first, by the way. It may shock, it may offend. My hope is that the majority of you found it amusing and thank you for taking the time to read and/or review.**

**Zzee – you know I had to do it. **

**Not Human – thanks for the wonderful advice.**


End file.
